WBY Playin' By The Rules
by wildblueyonder6
Summary: Dean doesn't play by the rules, unless they are Dad's rules. Sometimes though Dean doesn't even do that. Stupid boy. Parental spanking. Don't read if this offends. Characters: John, Sam and Dean Winchester Spoilers: None, pre-series


Title: Playin' By The Rules

Main Characters: Sam, Dean and John Winchester

Dean doesn't play by the rules, unless they are Dad's rules. Sometimes though Dean doesn't even do that. Stupid boy. Parental spanking. Don't read if this offends.

Spoilers: None, pre-series

XXX

Dean's never been one to play by the rules. Not in any sand lot game of baseball, not in any schoolyard fight, not any thing or any place that may actually have a rule set to follow. Only suckersplay by the rules. Dean knows just as well as he knows the acrid smell of a recently fired gun.

He knows this because Dad taught him. Rules were for idiots and civvies that didn't know their asses from a hole in the ground.

That is - unless they were Dad's rules.

Because his father's rules are iron clad. If Dean were a religious kid, he might just say they were written in stone dictates, as in _The_ _Commandments. _He's not though, so he'll call them rules some of the time and orders the rest of the time. Doesn't matter what word he uses, they need to be followed to the letter.

Dean normally follows them too. This time though? Not so much.

Dean cringes internally, part self-loathing, part recrimination. He'd thought about the rule. Referenced it, catalogued it in his brain. Hell, he'd even heard Dad's low voice telling him in no uncertain terms exactly what disobeying this particular rule would get him. And then damn if Dean didn't kick it, and probably his own ass, to the curb. Which was stupid and dumb. Even Sammy had said as much. Sammy who wanted to break every rule Dad ever laid down wouldna broken this one.

"Dickhead." Sammy mutters. It jars Dean's internal dialog.

Apparently his little brother feels he needs to comment on how absolutely dumb Dean is.

****At this moment, Dean is not too sure Sam is wrong. It had seemed so doable at the time. All he needed was skill and a little luck. Skill? Dean had that in droves. And Luck? Well she was fickle at best but sometimes a guy just had to say _what the fuck._ Just like that Tom Cruise flick about the kid who turns his house into a cathouse for the night. The kid got away with it; at least Dean thinks he did. Or maybe he just didn't get in trouble. Same thing as far as Dan is concerned.

Dean figures that's his problem. He is always sure he's gonna get away with his "What the fuck" ideas. Well, he's _pretty _sure he's gonna get away with it whatever he wants to get away with, even if his past experiences tell him otherwise. It's like how can he possibly get caught? It barely crosses his mind because _he is not going to get caught_. He is fucking Dean Winchester and he is smoooth and damn if he isn't good at running a scam or taking a chance. He's Ninja quick. That's stuff Dad taught him too. That should count for something, he figures.

Dean glances over at Sam. Sam has that _somebody farted_ look on his face. Dean knows it well because he's never passed up the opportunity to fart in Sam's presence. Except this time there's no malodorous vapors to initiate the fart face.

It's just Dean's stupidity.

That worries him a bit because Sam, for all of his whining and howling about how much Dean annoys him, for all the times Sam himself has thrown a punch at Dean, he doesn't really like see his big brother in Big Trouble.

And this is Big Trouble. Dean can see it in Sam's fart face and in the way the kid occasionally runs his hand through his shaggy hair.

Sammy is worried so Dean knows he should be worried too.

"Sammy, chill. You are makin' me nervous." Dean tries to sound nonchalant but the effort is wasted on Sam who knows most of Dean's tells anyway.

"Why'd you do something so damn dumb?"

"Not dumb, Sammy. It was…" Dean struggles for the word, "…entrepreneurial ."

Sammy shakes his head, "I'm not even sure that's a real word, but if you are saying that you are assuming significant accountability for inherent risks, well that might be the case."

Dean wishes he understood what Sammy is talking about. His geeky kid brother is far too smart for someone who is only eleven.

"Look. I got this okay? It's under control."

"Dude. It is not under control. Dad is gonna come home, figure out what you did and then he's gonna wallop you like no bodies business. There is going to be nothing you, me or anyone else can do about it."

"Well, let's face it Sammy – you're kidding yourself if you think you _ever_ have any pull with the old man."

"So this is about me and my lack of puuull? You've got to be kidding me!" Sam flops himself down with a melodramatic flounce on the sagging couch in their living room.

Dean rolls his eyes.

"He's not gonna find out." Dean tries for authoritative.

"Oh, he is. He is, Dean, and you are gonna be standing up for dinner for the next week."

"Ah ye of little faith." Dean tries for a smirk.

Sammy grabs his Catcher in the Rye book and puts his feet up on the coffee table with an exasperated, very Winchester-like huff. The kid may be a pip-squeak but he's obviously pretty self-assured when it comes to Dean's impending beat down.

"Well let's just wait and see."

Smug little kid.

XXX

Dean wishes he could have a do-over. That sounds kind of baby-like but a do-over would be awesome. Maybe it's because of Sammy's obvious self-assurance that Dean's ass is grass. Maybe it's just because it probably wasn't worth it. It most definitely wasn't worth it. _Isn't worth it_, Dean amends because Sammy is right. John Winchester will find out. He almost always does. His dad is like a hellhound when it comes to hunting down shit his boys have done that they shouldn't have done.

If Dean didn't know any better he'd swear there was a crossroads demon involved in his father's ability to hone in on any misconduct that occurs while he's out of town. Maybe it's something else. Hoodoo or something. Tarot cards, hex bags, maybe a little white magic. Dean berates himself. He is standing in the kitchen considering the possibility that his father is in cahoots with some supernatural shit just cause the man's got FUBAR Dean radar. He's an idiot. John Winchester may be a lot of things but he'd sooner take up figure skating than bed down with the enemy. Even if it means that by doing so he can somehow intuit what goes on in the Winchester house while he's gone.

Nah, there's nothing supernatural about his dad. The guy is just that damn good.

Dean sighs, opens the fridge leaning on it like he's air conditioning the entire house. There's not a lot in there, a few cold beers and some ketchup, hot sauce and a half open can of beans.

He needs to go shopping. Find out something for dinner.

Suddenly he has an epiphany.

Chili and cornbread.

XXX

He'd normally be pretty proud of the dinner he's been making. He watches the bubbling fragrant chili with a careful eye. He takes a big wooden spoon and scoops out a mouthful.

It tastes like the last supper of a condemned man.

Chili and cornbread – it had sounded so perfect earlier. The chili is home made with ground beef and kidney beans and onions. Not fancy but hearty. The cornbread is just from a box but he figures it's the thought that counts.

Sammy walks into the kitchen, sniffs appreciatively. "Smells good. It won't help, of course."

"Why do you think there is ulterior motives? Maybe I just wanted a nice dinner for a change."

"So it has nothing to do with the fact that Dad is due home in about fifteen minutes?"

"Nah, what makes you think that?"

"Maybe 'cause it's Dad's favorite meal?"

Dean mulls that around a moment.

Is he trying to buy the man's good will? He doubts his father is for sale in any, way shape or form but is he trying to manipulate the man?

"Nah, I'm just being a good son, Sammy," Dean plasters a grin on his face.

"Sure, Dean," Sam kicks at the mismatched kitchen chairs. "Look man, I don't blame you. Dad's gonna kill you. It's just being prudent."

"Jeeze, Sammy. You've gotta quit bringing me down with all of your negativity. "

"I'm sorry Dean. I am. " Sam peers at Dean through shaggy bangs and furrows his brows, "But it's not negativity it's just being pragmatic is all."

Dean snorts and watches as Sam grabs the hot sauce out of the fridge and tips it over the chili with a small grin.

Dean quirks his brow questioningly.

His brother's grin widens, "What? He likes it hot."

XXX

His father comes in a little tired but with the spring in his step that Dean associates with a good hunt. Dean feels a little guilty that he's not _just_ happy the hunt went well. His dad is safe and the fugly thing is dead. He _is _happy about that but a bad hunt would have been so much worse. In every way, he thinks.

"Smells good, kiddo."

Dad walks into the kitchen, grabs the wooden spoon in the chili pot and lifts it to his lips. He tastes tentatively and then grins and then makes a decidedly contented sound.

"Dean, where in the hell did you learn to cook chili like this?"

Dean smiles and drops his head, "Bobby?"

John laughs then. The sound resonates in the small kitchen, "Yeah, I guess so."

His father grabs a bowl and whistles sharply up the steps, "Hey, Sammy! Dinner's ready. Your brother out did himself tonight."

Sammy comes down the steps a little slowly but with enough purpose that it isn't really obvious.

"Hey, Dad," Sam greets his father. "Everything go okay?"

"Yup. How about you? Everything okay with you and Dean?"

Sam almost stutters, "Yeah, fine just fine."

Dean watches as his father cocks an eyebrow in Sam's direction. "Fine?"

"Yes, sir, just fine." Sammy reiterates, ducks his head and pulls out one of the mismatched chairs.

His father allows his eyes to linger over Sammy a moment, apparently not quite satisfied with the answer but then just as quickly he changes his mind. He ladles out the chili and hands a bowl of it to Sam and one to Dean. Then with a flourish he gives himself the biggest helping and sits down at the table.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Dean stands up and takes two quick steps to the oven. He opens it up and then grabs two dishrags and pulls out the cornbread. He kicks the oven shut and drops the cornbread on a stained potholder strategically placed on the table.

Dean sits back down.

"Cornbread?" John questions, "Are you sure nothing is wrong?" This time his brow shoots up in Dean's direction.

"Dad, why does something have to be wrong just because I decided to make a decent dinner for once?"

"It doesn't – it's just…" his father waves his hand vaguely, " I wasn't expecting it."

"So it's unexpected", Sam interjects, "Embrace the unexpected."

Dean throws a sharp glance at Sammy that his father doesn't catch. Mostly because his father is narrowing his own eyes in Sam's direction again.

Dean starts sending psychic mind daggers at his brother_. Shutupshutupshutup._

"Sam, do you have something you want to tell me?" Dad's voice doesn't hold that jovial timbre it had a moment ago.

"No, sir," Sam studies his chili and fuck, Dean is doomed.

"Really," His father drops the spoon in his chili and the sound of fake silverware on fake china rattles the suddenly quiet kitchen. _How can something so innocuous sound so ominous? _

"So, Dad. Ya wanna beer? There's a few left over," Dean stands pushes his chair back and heads to the fridge.

"Don't think so, Dean. I wanna know what's going on. What did you do, Sam?"

"Me?" Sam stirs his chili, makes a point of taking a spoonful, "Nothing, Dad. Nothing at all."

The volume of John's voice doesn't change, it just drops an octave lower, "Sam Winchester, do not make me ask again."

Sam purses his lips and does his Dad version of the fart face. Which is a bit different than Dean's version. There is more furrowed brow and less scrunchy nose. Dean thinks the fart face is kinda funny but he knows Dad thinks it is disrespectful.

A disrespectful kid is not something you want to be in front of John Winchester. Especially after a long hunt, even if it was a good one.

Sam however doesn't see it or chooses to ignore it. Maybe he is just being stubborn Sammy. Because Dean and he both know Sam has done nothing wrong and Dad is accusing him of it. It doesn't matter that Dad doesn't have all of the information to make an informed decision. Sam could care less. It is exactly this kind of absolute self-righteousness shit that Sammy lives for. Wronged Sammy Winchester is a sight to behold.

Sam glares hard at Dad. That disrespectful look is now into really dangerous territory.

Dad growls low, "Get upstairs, Sammy. Leave your dinner. I'll be up in a minute."

Sammy stands up, pushes his bowl back and eyeballs his father. Sam makes sure he keeps his gaze steady on Dad. Dean could kill his brother. Doesn't he know that staring down a angry dog just makes it go for the throat? Dean backpedals in his head; his dad is not some damn dog. He's just an overly concerned father. Still, no matter how Dean labels it in his head, the outcome seems poor for Sam. Luckily, Sam spins and stomps up the steps purposeful and angry.

Dad calls after him, "I better not hear that door, slam, Sam." It's not particularly loud but despite his obvious pissiness Sammy is just as obviously not a moron because Dean doesn't hear the door slam.

Dad runs a hand though hair then turns toward Dean, brows arched in question.

He doesn't need to do more than that.

"Wasn't him, Dad. It was me." Dean speaks clearly.

"You?"

"Yes, sir."

Dad folds his arms across his chest and leans back in the chair. He doesn't even demand an explanation, just waits for it.

Dean struggles a moment on how to present his case. Doesn't matter, he's fucked.

"I uh, stole a car."

Dad's glare darkens. "You did what?"

"I stole a car. But I put it back." Then because his Dad obviously wants more intel,

"Well, it was more of a joy ride, really. Just me…" then a little lower, "and a few friends."

Dean waits for that information to sink in. It doesn't take long. His father nods once, short and abrupt.

"So _putting it back,_ makes it so much better how?"

"Well, because no one knows I stole the car."

"Really, Dean? Really? Because I'm pretty sure the kids who were with you know."

"Yeah but they are _kids_. They aren't gonna tell."

"Damn it, Dean. You're right, they are kids. Kids always tell. You sure as shit knew they would too. What other reason is there to steal a car other than to impress somebody and once someone is impressed in high school the first thing they do is tell somebody else. Being impressive is just like being a moron when you are fifteen, every one finds out about it."

Dean drops his head. He's not quite sure if Dad just said he was impressive or a moron. He blames his inability to figure it out on the fact that he thinks he might be hyperventilating.

There is a long, long moment of silence and then John asks in a low rumble, "Were you gonna let Sammy take the blame?"

Dean looks seriously wounded, "Of course not, Dad. I would never do that. Sammy is well, he's just being Sammy."

"I agree with that one, but I'm not so sure he doesn't need a reminder to keep a civil tongue in his head."

Dean shakes his own head vehemently, "No way, Dad. Sammy's done nothing. He shouldn't get in any trouble."

"So this is all on you."

"Yes, sir."

Dad leans forward in the chair. "The chili and the cornbread?"

"A preemptive peace offering." Dean concedes.

"Or a preemptive attempt to stop a licking?"

Dean blushes, he can feel the heat from his neck crawling up his face like he's been slapped, "Not really, Dad. That's never stopped you before."

Dad seems to consider Dean's words carefully, "True, not gonna help you now either."

"Isn't there something else I can do? Extra chores? Detail the Impala? Some long distance running?"

Dean doesn't like to think he's begging but maybe he is.

"Nope. You may just be doing that stuff anyway."

Dad pushes away his chili; he looks truly regretful when he does that.

"Why don't you eat first?" Dean asks.

"Nah, spanking first then eating. That way it's a done deal and I can enjoy my dinner."

"The chili will get cold."

"I'll warm it up."

"The cornbread will too, and that's not as good warmed up."

"Won't matter. I'll be done before that cornbread cools down," His father touches a hand to the top of the cornbread just to make sure it is still sufficiently warmed from the oven. "Yup, not a problem."

Dean suddenly pales, "Well, it's not a problem for_ you."_

Dad kind of chuckles low, "Yeah, I guess not."

"Dad…."

"Okay, Dean. Let's get the show on the road."

"Show on the road? Like an ACDC concert or something?"

"Or something." Dad agrees and then scoots out his chair and pats his lap.

"Over your knee?"

Dad nods.

"When am I gonna be too big to go over your knee?"

"I dunno, when you stop doing dumb kid stuff I guess."

"Daadd."

This time his father shoots Dean a look, it's both weary and impatient in equal measure, "Dean, I'm tired. I have cooling cornbread on the table. Not too mention, I'm more than a little irritated that my oldest boy…the one who was supposed to be in charge and watching out for his brother, decided to steal a car today."

"Borrow really, Dad. Like I said I returned it…good as new." Then as an afterthought Dean adds, "And Sammy was in school."

"So you weren't?"

Dean scuffs the back of his neck with his hand. _Damn, he's losing his touch._

"Would you believe there was a teacher retreat?"

His father rumbles a low warning. It's not even words. Just a growl.

"One."

"Oh, Jesus, Dad. Not that bullshit counting thing."

"Two."

"Daad…"

"Three." Dean tries to scramble over his father lap but three is already out by the time he is settled.

"That shouldn't count, Dad…"

"Sorry kiddo, you know the rules."

"Dad, those are rules for little kids. I'm fifteen."

"Fifteen, as in not legally old enough to drive." Dad agrees.

"That's not fair, Dad because you taught me to drive when I was nine! And if we want to get technical you taught me how to steal a car too – so really you shouldn't be pissed at all!"

"Oh, so this is my fault? I taught you how to drive because in our line of business that is just prudent. I taught you how to steal a car - therefore grand theft auto for the helluvit is just fine? Not only am I not buyin' what you are sellin'- you are seriously eating into my chili and cornbread time."

"The chili and cornbread _I _made," Dean tries one last time.

Dad addresses that last comment by way of a few sharp slaps on Dean's denim covered ass.

"Owe!"

"Really? That's it?" His father apparently was expecting Dean to be a little more enthusiastic in his vocalizations. He shifts Dean's body. It's just a subtle movement of his leg but it tips Dean's head a little more toward the ground. Dean's hands scrabble for purchase on the cracked linoleum, Finally, he settles his palms on the floor, leaving his vulnerable ass in close proximity of his father's hand.

A moment later Dean's ass is blazing with rapid-fire smacks from his dad's hard hand.

"JESUS!" Dean bellows.

"Better." His father sounds oddly satisfied.

Dean swallows convulsively. He's trying not to freak out. No one ever wants to seem like a wuss when they are getting a spanking but it is hard as hell to remain cool when your butt is getting blistered. Dad swats again, hard and fast. He lays down a volley of scorchers. The old man is a pro when it comes to kicking Winchester ass. He doesn't play around and he doesn't draw things out. He just smacks with open handed slaps that burn like wildfire. It doesn't take long for his ass to ignite; that horrible burning stinging ache that Dean's had far too much experience with in the past.

Dad's not too big on lecturing while he's spanking – Dean's not sure if it's because it wastes energy that he wants to focus elsewhere or he just figures that whoever is getting his ass walloped knows exactly why it's happening anyway.

Dad stops for a moment, shakes out his right hand. Dean figures it has to sting. Dean's ass feels like it's liquid fire but it is his _whole_ ass that Dad is nailing, not just the palm of his hand. For a second Dean thinks that maybe Dad's finished but his father doesn't offer to help him up. He doesn't let him roll on the floor either so Dean figures that's a good thing. But Dean wouldn't mind being rolled on the floor if it meant the spanking was over.

Dad does neither though so Dean stays right where he is.

"Now, because you don't seem to think I mean what I say when I start counting."

"I didn't say that!" Dean kind of blubbers that out. It's hard to be rational when you are crying.

"Oh you're right. You said something like 'Not that bullshit counting' and then something about counting being just for little kids. Let's see if this feels like a little kid whuppin,'" His father says it mildly but it is that exact lack of heat in his voice that means Dean's gonna feel that very same heat in his ass.

Dean's breath hitches because whatever his father has in store it is probably worse than how he feels right now and right now he feels like shit.

His father reaches around, not even worrying about holding Dean down. Dean won't move and his father knows that. He unbuttons Dean's jeans one handed and _how the fuck the man can do that _and he tugs both jeans and boxers down to just below the his ass. There is a momentary reprieve when the slightly cooler air in the room hits his burning ass and then things go from bad to very bad in a split second.

Having John Winchester spank you with your jeans up is terrible. Having him decide to whale on you bare ass is a whole nother kind of agony.

Dean bucks unconsciously when his father's blazing hand scorches his butt. He doesn't jump off his father's lap but he can't help the wiggle that accompanies that stinging hand.

"Dad." He kind of squeaks that out because, _damn it hurts! _"'M'sorry, Dad, itwasadumbthingtodo."

Dean knows how it sounds but he doesn't care. Apparently his father can understand spanked boys speak because he takes a moment to acknowledge him.

"Yup, yup it was."

But he doesn't stop spanking, in fact lays another scathing line of what must be dark red handprints on an already rosy butt.

Dean can't argue, he can barely breathe so he just let's himself cry. He almost always cries when dad spanks him. Unless the old man just decides to offer a reminder swat or two, Winchester spankings tend to be loud and messy.

All Dean can hear is that particularly unique slap of hand on naked flesh and his own sobs.

It's over soon after that. Dean is crying quietly over his father's lap, boneless and spent. His father reaches down and hauls him up. It is neither gentle nor rough, just a matter of fact kind of thing. Dad even pulls his boxers and jeans up over his hips. It is almost as effortless as it was pulling them down. Dean would like to offer a thank you, because no one wants their junk hanging out but he's still crying too hard to do that. He does nod once in appreciation and hopes Dad gets it.

Dad lets him cry a minute or two. Dean kind of wallows in self pity because he can. It's one of the good things about getting a beat down from Dad. He allows for time to let a kid get his shit together. Dean feels rather than see's his father get up from the chair. Honestly, he doesn't much care where the old man is as long as he is not still spanking him.

A moment later he hears his father's low voice.

"Hey, Dean," Dad is standing now, his hip resting on the kitchen table, "C'mere."

Dean takes a shuffle step to his father, face burning and tear streaked.

Dad drops his arm around Dean and pulls him close. His dad smells of the road. The musky scent of unwashed male with an underlying smell of smoke and whisky. Then, because he is John Winchester, he smells of dirt too. Probably graveyard dirt, Dean's mind allows. No blood though. Not this time.

Oddly enough that smell is comforting to Dean.

His father holds him a moment and then kisses the top of his head. Dean grimaces a bit. Being kissed on the head makes him feel like a toddler. But a moment later, Dean decides he doesn't care and he takes another half step closer. His father is a bear of a man, strong and huge, his arms wrap around Dean like he_ is_ a toddler instead of a big strapping teenager. Dean allows himself to melt a moment in his father's embrace.

Dad speaks over his head, chin almost resting in Dean's sweaty hair, "Go ahead and clean yourself up, then come on back for dinner. Stop by and tell your brother to come on down too."

Dean pulls away and then nods his head, still too emotional to speak.

"By the way, son. Was she impressed?" His father's voice has just a hint of humor in it.

Dean swallows hard, sniffles once and then drags his palm against his nose. Disgusting but necessary, "What makes you think there was a she involved?"

"'Cause there is always a girl involved when you do something this stupid." His father ruffles his big hand over Dean's sweaty hair.

Dean thinks about lying but that's stupid too. No one cares, least of all Dean. Besides he just got his ass beat for stealing, there's no use in adding a lying violation to his list of transgressions.

"Yeah, I think I wowed her with my mad car stealing skills, but I don't think she'd be all that impressed with me now."

Dad grins, slow and easy, "Probably not." Then he adds, "Take as much time as you need, kiddo." His father's voice is soft and low. He realizes that Dean is miserable and that he needs time to regroup. His father has never been the kind to expect either boy to pretend an ass kicking doesn't hurt. He doesn't expect Dean to forgive him and go on like nothing happened. He doesn't expect anything really; except that hopefully he spanked hard enough to make sure the reason behind the what for is remembered.

He'll remember this for a while, Dean thinks.

Dean drags himself up he steps, takes a few deep breaths so he's not bawling when he passes Sam and his bedroom and then hits the head. He actually takes a leak, uncharacteristically dropping trou to do so. After, he stops to peer at his ass over his shoulder then positions his butt in the mirror so he can see it's better.

Mostly it's just red, but if Dean really looks he can see the deeper red of what was possibly the last angry swat. He thinks ruefully to himself. Yeah, John Winchester _does _make an impression when he wallops and it's that of his right hand.

Dean drops his jeans on the floor, pulls up his boxers and turns on the faucet. He lets it run icy cold and then splashes his face and then looks critically at himself in the mirror. He looks like he's been crying, his eyes are puffy and red but at least there aren't streaks of tears running down his face any more. Not that Sam doesn't know. It is not like he didn't hear. Sam and he have been sharing rooms and living quarters for years. Each one knows what a Winchester beat down feels like and more often than not, they've been around to hear or see the other brother get it. Sometimes they've gotten it together. Dean has no doubt his brother is aware.

He stands there at the sink a moment, trying to forget about his burning ass, splashes water on his eyes one more time and than rolls his shoulders. With a soft groan he picks up his jeans. That's all he'd need to have happen is the old man come in the bathroom and see Dean's jeans laying on the floor and give him hell for that too. He steps out of the bathroom, turns right and eases his way a few feet down the hall then crosses to his and Sammy's room. He knocks once, 'cause sharing a room with your brother means he could be doing anything when you aren't there, then he steps into the room, jeans in tow.

Sam is sitting on the bed, knee jigging with nervous energy. Sam raises his head, "You okay?"

Dean drops his jeans on the floor again and makes his way to his dresser. He pulls out a pair of sleep pants. Then flannel is so worn and so soft they are almost falling apart. Dean pulls them up over his blazing ass with a grimace.

_Perfect._

"Yeah, my ass is on fire, but that is a given."

Sam smirks, "I told you so."

Apparently, now that Sam has determined for himself that Dean is alive, he has given himself carte blanche to be a dick.

Dean thinks he should say something. Some kind of come back. But he doesn't really care and truthfully, Sammy is right.

He sighs, "Yeah, Sammy, I know."

Suddenly Dean remembers Sam's less than stellar exit from dinner. "So what was all that shit downstairs about _embracing the unexpected? _ Who the hell says stuff like that to Dad? Don't you think it might raise a red flag or three?"

"I dunno, Dean. He gets me angry and a little nervous. Besides, I was trying to help you out."

"Well, little brother, don't bother to help like that again okay. Not only did it open the door for this little brouhaha, you almost found yourself over the old man's lap too."

Sam snorts, "Well, I didn't. And besides, I'm not the one who opened any door. You are the idiot who stole a damn car."

Dean grins, "True, and I got blasted for it but you are the only kid I know who can almost guilt trip yourself into a spanking when you didn't even do anything."

Sam smiles a little too, "Yeah, I guess you are right. Sometimes I don't think before I speak."

"Really?" Dean offers a fake incredulous sound that causes his brother to nail him with a dirty sock.

"So, you learn your lesson?" Sam asks.

"Christ, Sammy you sound like Dad."

"Maybe, but I'd rather not listen to you get your ass beat again for the same damn thing."

Dean ponders it a moment, "Yeah, I did. "

Dean eyes the bed warily and instead opts to lean his hip up against the dresser.

Then he ads, "Besides, it didn't sit right with me."

Sam snorts, "You aren't gonna be sitting right for a long time. "

Sam giggles at his incredibly witty repartee, then, as if he actually heard what Dean said he adds, "What? You all of a sudden getting a conscious? You, Dean Winchester are worried about what somebody might think of you?"

"Nah, the only person I worry about is Dad. And you, I guess," Dean's voice is a little softer then.

"Okay, so what?"

"It felt like cheating."

Sam raises a questioning brow at Dean, "Cheating? Stealing I get, but cheating?"

"Yeah, cheating. I was cheating on my girl. Bad move, Sammy. She'll know. My baby will know and I gotta figure out how to make it up to her."

Sam laughs then, eyes dancing with glee.

"You gotta make up stealing a car to A CAR."

"Not just any car, Sammy." Dean allows a little growl into his voice. His own version of his Dad's low rumble, "That's m'girl." He says it like he's talking about a lover. He doesn't even care. The Impala is his girl. She's never let him down, she's gorgeous and she'd never expect him to do something this damn stupid just to impress her.

Dean thinks for a minute then makes a decision, "Top to bottom wash job. Detail her inside and out. She's gonna shine like the day she rolled off the line in Detroit."

Sam quirks a mischievous eye at Dean, maybe he's thinking of some more witty remarks. Instead he drops his head a moment and then he shyly catches Dean's eye.

"Okay, bro. I'll do the tires"

Dean considers it. Yeah, Sammy can do the tires.

It's fitting he figures, Sam is usually the one who keeps him on track anyway.

End


End file.
